Even the Dead Have Eyes
by Back-From-A-Guilt-Trip
Summary: Turbo, as a ghost, watches Vanellope's children play. One-shot.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own Wreck-It Ralph.

I'd like to apologize in advance for Turbo's attitude towards pregnancy in this. It's the character being an ass, not my personal views.

* * *

**Even the Dead Have Eyes **

* * *

He'd been dead for so long that he'd forgotten what breathing felt like. It was a beautiful day. Tasting the fresh air would have been a treat. He cursed his apparitional form, the pathetic existence that he was condemned to. And he cursed Vanellope's daughters, with their beating little hearts, their healthy young lungs. It was unnatural for them to even be _alive!_

He watched them make their way up a tree, pulling each other onto the branches as they climbed higher and higher. Mod, if only those brats would stop their infernal _giggling._ He'd push them off and send them falling to their deaths if he could.

The glitch had proved to be quite fertile. Two children so far, with another on the way. She raced while pregnant, the irresponsible ninny. She was lucky that both her girls had been born without any complications, but perhaps her luck would run out with the next one. He was always ill-wishing her. He detested that she was prospering. It made his afterlife unbearable.

"I hope Mama has another girl," Vanellope's older daughter said, once she and her younger sister reached the top of the tree. She was wearing a pretty dress and striped stockings. She had a pink ribbon in her hair. She minded her manners and liked dolls and tea parties. She looked so much like Vanellope that it made him sick.

"I want a brother," the second girl shot back. She was the tomboy, arguably more like Vanellope in personality than the other one. She had curly blonde hair, a dirty face, scraped knees. She liked to slide down banisters, and stick her tongue out at people while they weren't looking. At five she was already an okay racer, he had to admit. She wasn't ready to win trophies yet, but she had more potential on the road than her sister, who drove far too slow, and too carefully. "I already have a sister and so do you. We should have a brother so we both have one of each!"

That was pretty sound logic for a five-year-old. But what about the poor boy when he was born? He was going to be stuck with two whiny, spoiled older sisters.

"I think if Mama has a boy, she's gonna name him after Uncle Ralph," the older girl commented thoughtfully.

He nearly gagged. He almost felt sorry for the unborn child.

"That would be cool," her little sister said. "We could call him Ralphie, so we don't get him mixed up with Uncle Ralph."

How would they get a newborn baby mixed up with that obese warthog? Stupid brats.

"Maybe Mama _should _have a boy." The older one seemed to have changed her mind at the prospect of a second, smaller Ralph. "It might be fun. I can teach him how to dance."

"And I can teach him how to make mud pies, with gummy worms!"

Her sister made a face. "You're _disgusting._"

"You're boring!"

He couldn't help but grin.

The older girl rolled her eyes and picked a piece of bark off her skirt. "Mama will teach him how to race, of course," she said, flicking the bark away.

His grin disappeared.

"Do you think he'll be a good racer?"

"There's no way of knowing _yet_, but-"

"We can give him _your_ kart. You stink at racing!"

"It's pink, stupid. He won't want a pink kart!"

He gritted his teeth. Damn these two. They would never know the agony of not being able to drive or even touch a kart_._ To them, it was like planning to buy their sibling a Christmas toy.

"Mama says he's kicking a lot," the younger girl said. They seemed to have officially decided that the baby was a boy, despite there being a fifty percent chance that it was not. "I think that's a sign."

"A sign?"

"A sign that he wants to be a racer!" As if that was obvious. "Because he wants to put his foot on a pedal! _Gadoy!_"

He couldn't take any more of this. These girls were complete imbeciles. He had to go somewhere else, anywhere else. Watching a cow eat grass would be better than listening to this idiotic discussion.

Grumbling irritably under his breath, he floated away, just as the girls began making their descent down the tree. He heard them start giggling again.

* * *

Well, he _did_ find a cow. A cow named Vanellope von Schweetz. She was seven months along and enormous. Her maternity shirt almost didn't cover her baby bump. He would never understand why she'd given up on childhood and gotten that upgrade. What benefits did being an adult and a mother bring her? It just didn't make any sense, at least not to him. He was mostly just trying to convince himself that she was actually really miserable.

She was nibbling on sugar plums, blissfully unaware that the criminal game-jumper that had once made her life a hell was there, watching her (no one could see him, which was both a blessing and a curse). She touched her protruding belly, a content smile on her lips. No, she was definitely not miserable.

Damn her. Damn her and damn her children, both alive and unborn. Why did she deserve such happiness? Why did she get to have everything that he couldn't?

"Mama!" It was as if he'd summoned them with his thoughts. The girls ran up to their mother and immediately put their sticky hands on her belly.

"He isn't kicking!" the younger one cried, alarmed.

"The baby's resting, sweetums," Vanellope told her. "And what's this 'he' business?"

"We think the baby's a boy," the older one explained. "And we think you should name him after Uncle Ralph."

Vanellope smirked and raised her eyebrows. "Oh, really now?"

"It makes sense, doesn't it?" The girls listed their reasons for why the baby should be a boy named Ralphie, and why he would make a good racer someday. Vanellope listened closely, smiling the whole time.

"Well, it looks like you girls have got it all planned out," she said when they finished.

"So are you gonna name him Ralphie?!" her younger daughter cried, hopping up and down excitedly.

Vanellope laughed. "We'll see. _Oomf_, speak of the devil! He's kicking again!"

* * *

Two months passed. The baby was a boy, and he was born healthy. Vanellope granted her daughters' wish and named him Ralph. Wreck-It Ralph got teary-eyed when he held his newborn nephew and namesake for the first time. The girls were absolutely ecstatic. They started calling him Ralphie right away.

He, of course, didn't celebrate. All _he_ could do was go to his resting place and wallow in his own misery. Vanellope had three kids now, and then there would be grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and so on. What did he have to carry on his legacy? No one ever talked about TurboTime or King Candy anymore. No one ever visited his grave. No one even used the phrase "going Turbo" anymore. He was forgotten about. He was just a ghost, and that's all he would ever be.

Video game characters could have families now. They could pass on what they knew, and what they were, to a new generation. Everything had changed, but not for him. Life was swiftly moving on without him, and he could feel himself slowly, unstoppably, disappearing into thin air.


End file.
